Darkness Falls
by Tarpeia
Summary: Lord Voldemort has killed Harry Potter in 1981. There is no Chosen One, and no one can stop the Dark Lord's reign. The wizarding community is split between the supporters of the new regime and its opponents; the blood traitors are rounded up and forced to pay the price of their betrayal. One traitor, however, will change the game and its stakes.
1. I

**Note:** Co-written with the amazing almanera, whose Voldemort and Blacks have no equals in their authenticity and majesty.

I hope you will enjoy this story, which is based on the dystopian AU established in _Redemption_ and _Sleep of the Soul_ and has been a delight to write.

* * *

The corridors of Malfoy Manor were deserted, which Severus found mildly surprising, for the entire Death Eater group was present in the grand house, waiting and speculating. For his part, he was too weary to feel much curiosity. He was aware the Dark Lord's decision would have vast consequences and might even define the course of the future months if not years, yet all he could think of was Lily, whom he had barely seen during the five last days of intense work. He had left her sitting at the window with a quill and parchment in hands while their baby son had been crawling excitedly around the room. The need to be back with them was eating him alive.

Besides, the Blacks were finished, and sparing Andromeda Tonks or her half-blood child would not bring back the glory of the fallen House. Frowning in thought, he entered a high-ceilinged hall, where he was grateful to spot a flash of Lucius's white-blond hair. He saw at once the appearance had deceived him, though: it was Corban Yaxley and not their host seated near the fireplace. Rodolphus Lestrange was keeping him company.

"Any news?" Severus asked. If anyone would know, it was Yaxley, one of the men who had volunteered to take care of Andromeda.

"The woman is to be spared, it seems," the latter replied, ever the politician.

Rodolphus heaved a sigh; he knew Bellatrix was not happy about it.

"Is that so?" mused Severus. "A clever creature. Who brought the news?"

Yaxley grimaced, his expression more eloquent than words, before turning towards the broad-shouldered man. "You'd better hurry, Rodolphus; I'm afraid Bellatrix might end up burning down your mansion."

Lestrange sighed again. "Why do you think the Dark Lord chose this option?"

"It's the woman's half-breed bastard." Yaxley smiled. "It seems she has a certain rare ability. She's a Metamorphmagus, you see."

The other two men froze in astonishment.

"Impossible," Rodolphus asserted. "The Blacks used to have Metamorphmagi in their family, yes, but this ability disappeared centuries ago. Everybody knows that."

"Until now," Yaxley pointed out. "It has been confirmed. And Andromeda Black is the one who gave birth to this Metamorphmagus—a woman who is still fertile, mind you. So you see, gentlemen, it's not difficult to understand our Lord's reasoning."

Severus's face had clouded at the revelation. A Metamorphmagus. Unless he was mistaken, this meant the Blacks had been carrying this magic trait all along, all of them including the accursed Sirius Black. If the Animagus had lived to marry a woman of a lesser blood status, perhaps he himself would have become a father to wizards with this rare talent. The Death Eater forced down his bile and cleared his mind.

"What comes next then?" he inquired. "Are there any hints as to who will claim her?"

"Well, I do believe I have good chances," Yaxley said. Sure enough, his voice was brimming with confidence. "Andromeda Black might be a traitor who has adopted an insignificant surname, but she is still a Black. Her name carries status, and I just happen to be a wizard who knows how to use that status."

"Well, you certainly have more self-control than Rabastan or Antonin," Snape conceded. "The Dark Lord always knows best, though. I only hope we'll find out soon."

He intended to Apparate back to his family the moment this affair was closed.

"We shall indeed find out soon enough," Yaxley nodded. "It all depends on what we have to offer, doesn't it, gentlemen?"

Nodding absently, Snape walked towards the glassed terrace door and looked out onto the rainy gardens. For once, the white peacocks were nowhere to be seen.

"Where is Lucius?"

"In the West Wing, I believe," Yaxley replied. "A house-elf let me in here."

"Well, I might as well get going," Rodolphus muttered. "Do pass my greetings to the host, should you see him. Bellatrix needs to redirect her rage, and who else is there to help…"

Severus watched him get to his feet and wondered whether he should imitate him and make a detour to Hogwarts while the Dark Lord took his time settling his matters. He was on the verge of following this urge when a house-elf popped into the room and told them squeakily to come to the drawing room at once. Their waiting was finally at an end.

"This is it," Snape smiled at the other two wizards, relieved.

* * *

Not for the first time, they were filing into the monumental room, which was plunged in the shadows, all its curtains drawn. Footsteps and scraping of numerous chairs filled the air as usual; never before, however, had anticipation and excitement been so dense at a meeting. The Death Eaters kept their eyes respectfully downcast when facing their Lord, but they could not help stealing glances at the frail figure chained at his feet. The young woman was beautiful and weak from her imprisonment, with haunted eyes yet proud features.

Silence fell over the assembly the instant everyone was seated. Snape had taken his place on the Dark Lord's right, followed by Avery, Dolohov, Nott, Rookwood, Rowle, the Carrows and Gabbon. Yaxley had mirrored him on the opposite side of the table, flanked by Crouch, Lucius and Narcissa, the Lestrange brothers, Karkaroff, Macnair and Mulciber. Bellatrix's absence was akin to a gaping hole in this gathering, and while no one commented on it, all of them were conscious of her helpless rage.

"My loyal Death Eaters," the Dark Lord addressed them, for he always had the first and the last word, "remind me, how long has it been since the last member of the Order of the Phoenix, led and driven by Albus Dumbledore's delusional ideas of justice, dared oppose my rule?"

"Two years, my Lord," Yaxley answered readily.

"Two years," the Dark Lord repeated in his susurrant voice. "Two yearsss, and still we have to deal with the dirt the crooked-nosed old man left behind."

The wizard paused, approaching the captive his Death Eaters were observing so eagerly. The woman looked down, not meeting his eye.

There was something quite terrifying in his very gesture. A step: an immense accomplishment for a toddler growing into a child, an ordinary motion for any human being, and yet such a majestic and formidable one when performed by their Lord as he contemplated the witch with his ruby-red orbs gleaming on his snake-like face.

"How many rebels have we recently captured, Yaxley?" he asked almost casually.

"More than fifty, my Lord, from the two separate rebellions."

"More than fifty," came a soft echo. "The rebels take their inspiration from the likes of the deceased Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A half-blood, I shall remind you; a half-blood with rather liberal views on Muggles and the Mudblood scum, as well as the rightful hierarchy we have long since restored, my friends. Mating with such scum is, sadly, often inevitable, I'll admit that much. Giving them titles, however, lifting their importance despite all the times they've tried to slaughter us… now that is what makes all the difference. That is unacceptable and unforgivable. And yet, should we really be surprised there are the likes of Dumbledore still out there? Enemies who try to destroy us from within? No. Not if the best of our kind provide an example for them to follow. Traitors are despised for a reason, my friends."

The chained witch gave an involuntary twitch at those words. One could almost say she had sniffed or suppressed a small cry, but it was hard to tell.

The Darkest wizard of the century kept looking down at her, disgust visible on his features. Then he turned back to his Death Eaters.

For the most part, the men's expressions were blank, though the glint of interest in their gazes could not be missed. Yaxley's eyes displayed eagerness while Rabastan's shone with malevolent confidence. Antonin was watching the woman, and his emotions were more difficult to read. Out of the three of them, he was studying her the most attentively.

"Narcissa, you seem unhappy," the Dark Lord said suddenly.

Everyone's attention shifted to the Malfoys. Narcissa Malfoy was the only one who had not spared her sister as much as a glance. She was staring straight ahead, her inscrutable face as pale as her long silvery hair hanging down her back.

"Your will is clear, my Lord. I can only respect it," she said.

"Indeed."

The Dark Lord then spoke to the rest of them.

"For those of you who are not yet aware, I have decided to spare Andromeda Black's life despite the severity of her betrayal. I believe this is the cause of Narcissa's grief, am I correct?"

Narcissa held their Lord's gaze, never flinching under its ferocity but responding to it gently, like a lady, whereas most other witches and wizards would be cowering in fear.

"Your will is clear, my Lord, as I said. As your humble servant, I must respect it regardless of my own opinion on the matter."

"And if I were to change my decision?" the Dark Lord wondered.

And as if on cue, a silver dagger appeared in front of Narcissa.

"Would you do the honours and execute the traitor, who, by all means, deserves it?"

Narcissa looked at the dagger, not taking it yet never looking away. Under the table, her husband reached for her hand, expecting to find it covered in cold sweat. Instead, her delicate fingers were warm, her hands free of any tremor. Narcissa Malfoy was utterly calm, even serene. Everybody was eyeing her intently, even the men who had been so focused on her imprisoned sister, and even the captured witch herself, although her intelligent coppery eyes betrayed nothing.

"I would do anything that would please you, my Lord," the blonde witch responded. "And if you were to take my sister's life, nothing would please me more."

Her words were true, and the Dark Lord saw it. The dagger dissolved in thin air, not leaving so much as diamond dust in its wake. The three men who had offered themselves as Andromeda Tonks's guardians appeared relieved at this sign.

"You and Lucius have served me well," the red-eyed wizard stated, addressing Narcissa, "but I am afraid I cannot heed your request. As I have already explained to Bellatrix, Andromeda Black is a traitor, a disgrace to our kind, a living proof that even those of the purest of blood do not know the true value of a gift so rare as magic. And yet, she is one of the purest of blood. Her blood carries power, and she shall be more useful alive than dead. She shall be spared."

Everyone seemed to straighten up in their seats. The eyes of the three tensest Death Eaters wandered from the woman to the Dark Lord's face, anticipating his next words.

"Which brings us to the most significant question of the night. If Andromeda Black is to be spared, what shall become of her? Should I snap her wand? Should I imprison her for her crimes for the rest of her days? It would be fair, but it wouldn't be wise. And it just so happens that three of my loyal Death Eaters have volunteered to take charge of this particular captive."

His gleaming eyes travelled to the men in question, and for once, eagerness had the better of them, for they did not look away. He would have had no trouble deciphering their thoughts and feelings even if he had not been the world's most powerful Legilimens.

Ambition and excitement dominated Yaxley's mind-the only kind of excitement he knew: that of politics, plotting, power. He was attracted to the woman's name and everything she represented. There was nothing personal in his desire to be her guardian; he was barely even appreciative of her looks.

Rabastan's emotions were not much different, but the aura surrounding him was darker. He loathed Bellatrix and, by extension, all the Blacks, for in his opinion, they were responsible for the decline of the Lestrange House. In his eyes, Andromeda was a copy of Bellatrix—a copy he could punish and torture for all the wrongs Bellatrix had, in his opinion, ever inflicted on his lovesick brother.

And then there was Antonin, who, unlike the other 'suitors', was not driven by thoughts of political prestige. He certainly was not insensitive to the name of Black, yet ambition and power play were not at the core of his interest for the witch. He was fascinated by her good looks and furious at the humiliations he and his family had endured at the hands of the Blacks. There was anger and desire for revenge, but it was far less personal than Rabastan's savage hatred, and carnal desire played a larger role in his request.

The Dark Lord's mouth curved into a twisted smile. He let his gaze roam along the Death Eaters' faces. They were all impatient to hear the name he would speak; so impatient they did not even bother to pretend otherwise. Finally, his eyes passed over Narcissa Malfoy, who remained as impassive as before, though a certain defeat showed in her shoulders if one were to look closely. Then his look stopped on Yaxley.

"Antonin," he said while Yaxley glanced back, barely containing a smile of triumph, "approach. You are to make sure Andromeda Black stays in line and serves us well."

For a few seconds, there was a nearly deafening silence, and then Antonin Dolohov rose, his delight tinged with only a hint of surprise. He approached his master and sank to one knee.

"You honour me beyond words, my Lord. Thank you for your trust. I shall not disappoint you."

Whispers broke out across the table, as if impossible to withhold, and amazed looks were exchanged. Rabastan and Yaxley looked as though someone had knocked all the wind out of them.

"I trust you not to, Antonin, or else, you know the consequences," the Dark Lord responded, beckoning the tall dark-haired wizard to rise and take the chains the witch was bound with. "Two years, my loyal Death Eaters. Tonight, we celebrate a victory, for even those who try to deny our rule cannot do so any longer."


	2. II

**Note:** Co-written with the amazing almanera. Many thanks to her and Guest for the lovely reviews.

 **Warning:** This chapter is very, very dark and includes horror atmosphere, graphic non-con and boundless cynicism.

* * *

Two hours later, Antonin Dolohov was having a drink in Acromantula's Lair in the company of Rabastan Lestrange and Walden Macnair. Despite its fearsome name, the inn was among the most elegant and expensive establishments in Knockturn Alley. Spider ornaments with gleaming red eyes lurked in the shadows of the pub, which had been artistically draped in cobweb.

"It feels surreal," he admitted. "We all had our hopes, but I thought Yaxley would be chosen. Ha, did you see his face when he stormed out?"

"Looks like you're not meeting his sister-in-law, Yolanda, any time soon," Walden commented.

Antonin shuddered at the memory of the eccentric blonde woman close to his mother's age, who wore pink frills and had the habit of staring at him—particularly at his lap.

"Good," he sighed in mock-relief. "Now here is my dilemma: how do I explain to my parents that I am to marry a witch they've never met? Keep in mind my mother comes from a Light family and can't be told certain things. Certainly not any details on the way we killed the Mudblood Tonks."

"How about you just explain it to them?" Rabastan shrugged.

"Is it jealousy I detect there?" Walden smirked. "Have a drink, Rab, you actually just got lucky—while you, Tony, have a problem. It's one of the Black bitches we're talking about. Remember them from Hogwarts? I can't say they've changed."

"Oh, yeah… Good luck breaking the news; just make sure your bride is not in the room when you do."

"And still I hear jealousy." Walden laughed. "Don't worry, Rab, we understand. The Blacks do have the looks. Have a drink, both of you."

Antonin clinked his glass to Rabastan's in a conciliatory gesture. "He's right, Rab. The Dark Lord probably did you a favour: Bellatrix would kill her if they were to live close to each other, and you'd be the one who'd answer for it."

"Or Rab would kill her, wouldn't you now?" Walden sniggered, clinking with them.

"Shut up," the youngest Lestrange huffed.

"Well, the Dark Lord has chosen wisely. Tony won't kill her; he has a few more interesting activities in mind, don't you, Tony?"

"She certainly won't get bored with me—the least I can do for my wife," Antonin smirked back.

"Bloody hell, it's your wedding night!" Walden exclaimed in a sudden realisation.

Rabastan blinked and then laughed, genuinely amused for once.

Antonin joined in before complaining jokingly, "Oh, I doubt my mother will let me come anywhere near her before we're officially married."

"Are you serious right now?" Walden shook his head in disbelief.

"Shut up, Macnair, he's got a point," Rabastan cut in. "Finding the right location is a problem."

"Excuse me? Did I spend an entire month practising all those Concealment Charms for nothing?"

Rabastan burst out laughing. "How generous of you. Are you hoping to participate? I doubt it would sit well with Tony, ain't I right?"

"You're disgusting, Rab. It's Tony's wedding night after all. Oh, and there are plenty of candles, Tony… among other things. It's a very romantic getaway."

Antonin nearly choked on his drink, laughing. "Get to the second part, Walden: what is it you want?"

"Nothing. Is it so hard to believe I can be generous?" the other man returned. "Well, if you let me watch, I'll gladly accept the offer."

"Told you so, didn't I?" Rabastan smirked.

"Oh, please, as if you'd refuse."

"I see enough of Bellatrix; I don't need more."

"Rab, just drink; don't spoil our mood with your jealousy." Walden pushed another glass in front of the sullen man, rolling his eyes before turning towards Antonin. "Come, Tony, have some fun. You deserve it."

"Well," the latter drawled, making a show of thinking the offer through, "as it _is_ my wedding night, a little privacy with my wife is a must. However, I do feel generous enough to let you listen in."

"It is your wedding night," Walden agreed in an encouraging tone. "Try not to choke in there, Rab—I see you salivating already."

"Shut up," Rabastan growled again.

* * *

It was a deserted, derelict area that Antonin Apparated to an hour later, his bride firmly secured in his arms. After half a dozen drinks, the party had split up and he had returned to Malfoy Manor to fetch Andromeda while the other two Death Eaters had left to prepare Macnair's hideout for his arrival. After replacing the witch's chains with much lighter and more practical ropes—she was too weak to put up a solid fight anyway—he had carried her out of Malfoy's dungeons, aroused by the mere sensation of her shapely figure in his embrace.

Uttering the incantation Macnair had shared with him, he saw a cave entrance come into view. A poorly lit stone staircase led him into the best equipped torture chamber he had ever seen. There was virtually no Muggle cutting weapon Macnair had not acquired and displayed on his walls. Antonin could only imagine the terror of the Muggle victims who had found themselves strapped to the table at the very centre of the room. A table his drunken companions had dutifully cleared for his needs, not without decorating it with black roses. He snorted with laughter and glanced around, wondering where they were.

As if on cue, Walden appeared before him, looking as happy as if this were his own wedding night.

"Welcome, young lovers!"

Beside him, Rabastan was—fortunately—too drunk to say anything at all.

"Enjoy."

Antonin smiled back while the captive witch stirred, her survival instincts causing her, paradoxically, to grasp at his arm.

"Thank you," he replied smoothly. "Where are you lot going to be?"

"Call us when you need us," Walden laughed, dragging Rabastan behind him as he strode away.

Silence enveloped Antonin and Andromeda. Not even the candles flickered inside this airless dungeon. The black roses lent the table the impression of a funeral altar. Looking down into the witch's coppery eyes, Antonin approached the stone surface and laid her onto it as though she were a lamb about to be immolated. A flick of his wand, and the ropes that bound her hands and feet vanished. He did not need those to keep her subdued, not as long as he had his hands. It was also his hands and not magic that tore her ragged dress away. Despite her frail state and the bruises on her skin, she had a glorious body, a soft, creamy skin and the chiselled features of a rare beauty. And all of this was his now.

Without wasting more time, he unfastened his trousers to release his impatient manhood. Their gazes met again, and slowly, tenderly even, he put his hands on her waist, trailing them up across her breasts and towards her shoulders. Her eyes filled with tears. With a tremendous effort, she tried to slap his hands away. He did not so much as budge.

"Shhh," he whispered, wiping her tears.

His fingers slid down her cheek, smoothed her locks and traced her beautifully shaped lips, lingering on those for a moment. She was exquisite.

And still she attempted to resist, growing desperate, scratching at his wrists with her broken, ragged nails.

He seized one of those ravaged hands to contemplate her slim fingers. A ring was what she needed. She would have one after tonight—after she became his for good. His erection gave a throb, and he pressed himself closer against her, pushing her legs apart, his motions languid despite his desire. There was something in the atmosphere of the dungeon that lent the situation a darkly solemn yet sensual feel. He was going to savour every second of this wedding night when the Dolohovs finally triumphed over the Blacks and claimed one of them as their own. After tonight, she would wear lilac and lavender, the traditional colours of the wives in his family. The tip of his member brushed her entrance, and one of his hands landed on her round breast—it was too perfect not to be touched.

Only vaguely did he perceive her cry of pain when he entered her unprepared body. Of their own accord, his hands went to her hips, frenzy taking over his mind. He would not have been able to stop if he tried, and he did not want to try; he wanted to possess this beautiful witch, who represented everything his family had once been and which should have belonged to him from the very start. His black eyes opened slightly, meeting her coppery ones, and despite the pain, grief and distress in them, there was something else that struck a nerve in him: a hint of contempt. In truth, she had not uttered a single plea ever since he had taken hold of her. _Very well, then_. With a husky intake of breath, he focused on a simple spell and lifted himself onto the table, covering her frame with his, their faces now a foot apart.

She barely flinched when a hand closed around her throat, though her eyes filled with even more tears, blurring her vision, no doubt, as her natural instincts forced her to gasp for breath.

With an unnerving combination of gentleness and brutality, he leaned in to plant a tender kiss on her panting mouth, never releasing her neck. His thrusts were becoming quicker and harder, his release impossible to fight any longer. In a final spark of conscience, he removed his fingers from her throat and wound them in her hair; he would have accidentally strangled her otherwise. His climax wrecked him for what felt like ages; all he could do was collapse on top of her, not caring that they were being watched. For her part, Andromeda lay utterly still, and her face bore distinct traces of the pain she had endured; it shone with tears in a bizarrely fitting way.

It was a while before his racing heart returned to its usual pace; when he rose to his feet, however, he was calm. He looked down at her pallid features and leaned in for one more kiss. Her lips were soft and sweet; it did not matter they were unresponsive. At last, he started adjusting his clothes.

"Walden?"

"Yes?" Macnair emerged from the shadows, his expression amused. "Feel free to help yourself to anything you like. I have a very impressive collection."

"What?" Antonin shook his head distractedly. "Oh, no, she's my wife, not an animal."

"I have enchanted them, you know. It's very amusing, actually: cut-and-heal blades, quite special."

"Oh, ingenious. Thank you, but I feel we have trespassed on your hospitality long enough, and I have to introduce her to my parents before they go to bed. There _is_ something I need, though... I'm pretty sure it's the only thing you don't have here."

"Whatever you need, lover; tonight, I am your humble servant."

Antonin chuckled. "I need a presentable female dress. But unless you store your Muggle victims' clothes, I don't see why you'd have one."

"The night is young, you know. Why bother with dresses just yet? I also have an impressive collection of whips... Besides, she's quite a sight."

"I told you, I need to get home and present her to my parents before they retire for the night. And I'd rather my mother didn't see her naked."

"All right, all right," the burly wizard sighed in defeat, sparing the witch an amused glance as she cried quietly, her eyes remarkably absent.

"Do you have some clothes on hand or not?"

Macnair left. He was eager to see more torture but knew his fellow Death Eater well enough to recognise there would be nothing more to watch that night.

As his steps faded away, Antonin returned to the table, where the witch had not moved an inch. She was much too weak to sit down.

"I'm going to heal you," he whispered. "Lay still."

Taking one of her hands in his, he cast a spell and watched her broken nails return to their natural oval shape while her bruises faded. With a gentle kiss on the healed fingers, he set to work on the rest of her body. He knew this magic would not relieve her of her pain and faintness, but it was a start, and it would keep her both pliable and presentable. When all the marks, scratches and bruises were gone, he cast a Cleaning Charm on her skin. Within a minute, it was as creamy and silky as though she had never set foot in a dungeon. All that remained to do was give her some clothes and comb her beautiful hair. Putting an arm behind her back, he helped her rise to sitting position and conjured a glass of water.

"Drink this."

Her mouth remained immobile, though, and so did her eyes.

Antonin sighed, thinking, and then concentrated. " _Imperio_. Drink, Andromeda."

Her hand rose, the muscles making the effort to take the glass, yet incredibly, it froze in mid-air. Parched as they were, her lips parted a little. The dead look in her eyes had not changed in the slightest.

"Leave... me... alone," she whispered.

He stared at her. She had overcome his Imperius in spite of her pitiful state, which was unheard of. With another sigh, he put the glass away and started gently brushing out her hair. She gave no reaction to his touch.

When Walden finally returned, he was carrying an ordinary wizarding cloak.

"All I could find. Shrunk it already, just for you."

"Thank you." Antonin unfolded it to make sure it contained no stains. "Where is Rab? Is he so drunk he's fallen asleep?"

"Yes... and frankly, I should join him," Walden admitted, aware there would be nothing more for him to see.

With one last smirk at the doll-like witch and a nod at the other man, he excused himself.

Antonin used magic to dress his wife. This done, he took her face between his hands, struggling to reach her behind her lifeless façade.

"Now listen, Andromeda. I honestly can't tell where your daughter is at this moment, but she was still alive in the morning, and I'm confident the Dark Lord has decided to spare her as he has spared you. I cannot swear it, but I am almost sure of it. Keep this in mind."

There was no indication she had heard him, though; it was as if he had not spoken at all.

Either way, it was time to bring her to Plamen's Parlour, his ancestral home. He had already sobered up, which was fortunate, for the realisation that he was now in charge of this particular captive had begun settling in.

* * *

The doors to the purple house swung open. Antonin hurried inside, his wife in his arms, not bothering to remove his cloak. The fireplace and a number of floating candles had been lit in the sitting room, and he spotted both his parents at once, surrounded by the numerous portraits of his Bulgarian ancestors. His beautiful mother was sitting under an old-fashioned lamp, absorbed in a book. For once, her black curls were loose; they cascaded down her back, contrasting with her milky skin and the pearly lace of her dressing gown. His father, sturdy and darkly handsome, appeared to be writing a letter. They looked up when he emerged from the hall and froze at the sight of the unresponsive young witch.

"Good evening," he started, suddenly aware of how little he had spoken to them during the previous days. "There was a new development today. You must have heard of Andromeda Tonks, the second daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black. She was married to a Mudblood, Edward Tonks, with whom she escaped to France shortly before the Dark Lord's rule was established. We only located them a few days ago. Tonks was executed for treason while their daughter was taken away by the Dark Lord—she is in fact a Metamorphmagus and could prove valuable to our side. Until today, Andromeda's fate remained unknown. As it is, the Dark Lord decided to put one of us in charge of her, and he announced I was to be married to her. She has no other home but ours now."

For a moment, they only gaped at him. Slowly, Ivan Dolohov stood up, his eyes resting pensively on Andromeda before darting back to his son. Antonin thought he could already discern a glint of glee in their grey depths. The Blacks had never made a secret of despising and belittling the Dolohovs, who, for their part, had never forgotten or forgiven this offence. Ivan's hatred for the Blacks was notorious, and Antonin was certain of his father's support on the matter. It was his ever sensitive and emotional mother, Ghergana, who worried him. She looked stunned as she approached him, watching the younger witch with apprehension.

"Mrs Tonks? Andromeda?"

The copper-haired woman gazed back, her expression completely blank, as though she could neither see nor hear anyone around her. Then, without warning, her eyes closed and her head fell back; if Antonin had not been carrying her, she would have slumped to the ground.

"She is exhausted," he said ruefully. "Add all the stress—she only found out a few hours ago she would be spared. The Dark Lord wishes me to take care of her, and that's what I'll do."

"Right," Ghergana breathed with a nod. "The guest room is unoccupied, and the house-elf will furnish it with all the necessary items in no time. We need to make sure she has-"

"The guest room?" Antonin looked up indignantly. "She is my wife, mother. I don't think it would be appropriate to make her sleep in there."

The witch drew herself to her full height, her expression of disbelief swiftly morphing into a stern one. "Are you out of your mind, Antonin? Now listen here: she is unconscious and in a state of shock and grief. Her husband died days ago, you said so yourself, and you haven't been properly married yet—nor should you be. It is out of the question that you should take her to your room; there are even no windows there. What she needs is peace, personal space and—"

Ivan laid his hands on her shoulders, interrupting her mid-sentence. "Let him do, Gheri. It's up to him to decide."

This only increased her outrage. "Are you both insane? What are you thinking? Tony, I will not have you disrespecting this poor witch. You will not treat your future wife like this while I'm alive; if I see you—"

His father's grip on her tightened. "Ghergana, you are making an elephant out of a fly. Tony isn't disrespecting anyone; he is following orders. There is no need to raise your voice and spoil everyone's mood."

"She will recover better in the guest room," she protested, struggling against his hands. "This isn't acceptable while they aren't married."

"My word, if it isn't the granddaughter of Arcturus Black the Third," another voice suddenly spoke. It was the portrait of a middle-aged man with cold grey eyes and a hard, sneering face: Vladislav, Ivan's father. "It must be; I would never mistake those features. And our captive, no less. I am proud, Tony, I really am. Oh, I wish Arcturus were still alive to see this."

Despite himself, Antonin smiled back. Ghergana whipped around, appealing to the only portrait who usually sided with her—that of Antonin's great-grandfather, Plamen—yet for once, the smooth-looking wizard appeared to be no less gleeful than the other portraits. After one glance at her, Ivan firmly gripped her arms.

"Go to your room, Tony," he said.

Antonin frowned, unconvinced, but Ivan's nod was unwavering. "Don't worry, I'll handle the rest. Do your duty."

Clutching the unconscious witch to his chest, the Death Eater set off upstairs, followed by his mother's cries.

"Tony! _Tony_!"

Pinned as she was by Ivan's hands, there was little she could do but turn towards the only portrait she half-trusted. "Plamen, say something!"

"Grand-niece, Vladislav," the latter pointed out to his son, ignoring Ghergana completely. "She is Pollux Black's granddaughter. As they say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

"Doesn't get any closer than this," Vladislav chuckled gleefully. "Oh, I do wish I could see their faces... _All_ of their faces."

"Especially old Cygnus's face," Ivan smirked, maintaining an iron grip on his wife.

"Oh, who knows, the shock might have given him the ability to walk again. Too bad it didn't happen earlier," the portrait smiled cruelly, referring to the condition of Andromeda's late father, who had lost the use of his limbs during the last years of his life.

"TONY!"

Ghergana had as good as screamed, and Ivan had had enough. Pulling her close, he hissed into her ear, "This is his wedding night, and you are not spoiling it for him. If you don't stop shouting now, it's the Calming Potion. You can be a supportive mother, or you can—"

A slap silenced him. His jaw clenched, and he summoned the little potion vial wandlessly. Several minutes of struggling later, she was limp on the couch.

"There you go," Ivan panted, turning towards his father's portrait. "They say the Blacks bring discord wherever they go. The wench hasn't been here for ten minutes, and look at my wife's state now."

"You have my sympathy, Ivan," Vladislav said. "Do treat our sweet cupcake to a double dose. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I have to go and see the granddaughter of the almighty Blacks in all her glory. Chavdar be blessed, I've never thought I'd actually get to see this."

"I can't wait to be a portrait," Ivan commented wistfully, staring down at his wife's motionless form.


	3. III

**Note:** Co-written with the incredible almanera.

I would like to thank Guest for the kind review.

* * *

The following morning, it took Ivan Dolohov a moment to realise why he was feeling more elated than he had done in long months. Impatiently, he dealt with his morning routine and proceeded to interrogate the portraits for fresh news. Antonin, it transpired, had liberally indulged in his newly acquired marital rights during the night.

"The younger Lady Dolohov appears to be rather exhausted," his father's portrait reported gleefully, making sure to stress Andromeda's new title. "What can I say, Tony was eager; he seems to like her a lot. The poor thing was mostly unconscious—or perhaps having a nightmare, I could not tell. Her attempts at self-defence were quite adorable, though. As much as I loathe the Blacks, I've always wanted to see some of them this _exposed_."

"That makes two of us," Ivan smirked before his expression became thoughtful. "You know, I find it interesting that the Dark Lord entrusted her to him, of all people. I will ask him for details, but he can't have been the only one who volunteered."

"I am certainly not complaining. I knew Arcturus Black, and I hope he rolls in his grave."

"Oh, I'm sure they all will roll in their graves when she bears Tony's sons," Ivan nodded. "It's still hard to believe, though; I would have never expected to see him attracted to a Black. Not that they don't have the looks, but they _are_ difficult to handle… to say nothing of their conceit."

"It does raise a question, doesn't it?" Vladislav's portrait agreed. "I believe Tony is only driven by revenge. He is one of us, and we never forgive."

Ivan expression sobered even more. "Supposing it is only revenge... is it wise to found a marriage on such an emotion? It's not what a marriage is about, is it? Look at my wife's behaviour, and she is hardly my political enemy."

"Well, no one says Tony can't become a widower," Vladislav suggested cruelly.

This only caused Ivan to sigh. As helpful as the advice of his ancestors' portraits often was, they were only enchanted objects, imprints of the minds that had lived in the past. They did not—could not—comprehend the new social order under the Dark Lord's rule, where his word, and his alone, determined wizards' fates.

He thanked his father and watched him leave his frame in order to guard their newest family member. Truth be told, it felt good to see his ancestors this excited and proud. After a few questions addressed to his grandfather, Plamen, he was told his wife had just woken up. This left him several moments for what he needed to do before he faced her icy temper.

Purposefully, he marched downstairs and retrieved some Floo powder from an inconspicuous vase. He watched the flames in the hearth turn green, and after a clear and laconic _Rosier Manor_ , he lowered his face into the fire.

The Floo directed him right into the study of his closest friend, Euan Rosier, the last of his House. The man himself was reading newspapers by a tall window, which illuminated the high-ceilinged room painted with white and gold and reflected from the mirrored surfaces on the walls. He was a blond man, athletic yet lean with the cold and composed yet charismatic features possessed by only few pure-blood families.

"Good morning to my fellow early risers," Ivan shot out in guise of greeting.

"Ivan?" Euan Rosier looked up and approached the fire, folding his paper in two. He was the same age as the other wizard. "I can't say I was expecting you this early. Good morning, indeed."

"I hope your morning is half as promising as mine," Ivan smirked. "I don't suppose you've heard the news? In theory, it's not widely known just yet, and I wanted you to find out from myself rather than from third parties."

The fair man arched an eyebrow. In the sunshine bathing his study, it would have been difficult to spot the immediate change these words had caused, for the wizard's expression became calculating and alert, but Ivan had known him since their Hogwarts days.

"I take it this is rather important, then."

"I dare say." Ivan let out a sigh, and his face grew more serious as well. "I'll start from the beginning. Yesterday, Ghergana and I were spending a perfectly ordinary evening in the living room. Around midnight, here comes Antonin carrying an unconscious Andromeda Tonks in his arms and tells us the Dark Lord appointed him her husband and guardian. No one knows where her child has been taken or if she's even alive."

"Andromeda Tonks? You don't mean to say—"

"Your niece, yes. I guess that makes us relatives, doesn't it?"

Andromeda's mother, Druella Black née Rosier, had indeed been Euan Rosier's sister. An unwanted sister, no less. As far as the master of the manor was concerned, he was and always had been his family's only heir and name bearer, and now that his own son, Evan, had been killed in his service to the Dark Lord, his House would soon cease to exist altogether. Even though Andromeda Tonks shared some of his blood, their family relation was as unfortunate as the one between many wizards and the garden gnomes that invaded their houses, nothing more and nothing less. He did not consider that woman to be his niece.

It was interesting to know she had been allowed to live, though.

"I see," he said. "And she is to be married to Antonin, you say?"

"Yes." Ivan suppressed a smirk. "I doubt there will be a proper ceremony; their names might simply be entered into the register. From what I understood, the marriage… is already consummated."

"Explains why you look so happy," Euan commented. "An ironically fitting way of extracting revenge on the Blacks, seeing how they always treated you as one would treat a Flobberworm. You must be positively enjoying it."

"Not quite as much as my father's portrait is, to tell the truth," Ivan smiled wearily. "But even the most fitting arrangements can have hidden drawbacks."

"I can imagine." The blond wizard frowned. "It worries me that she's been allowed to live in the first place. After all, what advantage does it bring? The Blacks are gone, and so are all the prominent families they used to be tied to: the Potters, the Prewetts... There are still the Lestranges, of course, and the Malfoys, who are pretty much the top of the wizarding political elite. Then there are the likes of the Notts, the Macmillans and the Crabbes, all of them known for having been rather friendly with the Blacks back in the day. Yet even so, we have to consider her betrayal, not to mention the disgrace of the last heir of the Blacks—Sirius. Both factors should have guaranteed her death sentence in spite of her name and former connections, and now that she is allowed to live, I'm not sure how this might play out. It's the reason behind the Dark Lord's generosity that worries me."

"I need to find out more details from Tony," Ivan admitted. "All he let slip during these last few days is that she was captured last week and her fate was unknown until yesterday. The Dark Lord spent a while talking to her in private, and he was intrigued by what she had to say. Mind you, I would have expected Corban Yaxley to volunteer for the task of guarding her. That man is greedier than a goblin and has more tentacles than the Giant Squid. Oh, and Andromeda's daughter was found out to be a Metamorphmagus."

"I wouldn't care if her brat were able to conjure slugs in her sleep," Euan said dismissively. "Andromeda Black should have been subjected to the Dementor's Kiss for her betrayal; that's the law. Other pure-bloods who had dared oppose the Dark Lord received this very same sentence while their children were given up for adoption to the loyal families. Isn't this what happened to that foolish Muggle-loving rebel? What was his name?"

"Bell." Ivan sounded weary once more. "No chance of forgetting _that_ name; Wilkes never shuts up about the 'ungrateful' extra child he and his wife now have to raise. My point is, there is a difference between a Metamorphmagus and some mediocre rebel's brat. If your niece has brains—and everyone in your family does, regardless of your feelings for each other—she must have used this to win over the Dark Lord."

"She most likely did. That's what unnerves me." Euan briefly thought of his sister, Druella. "You say Yaxley might have wished to wed her, for the lack of better term. If so, he was not allowed to do it precisely because he understands how things work. He might look like a moderately gormless old bookkeeper, but the appearances are deceptive." He paused. "When Dumbledore fell, the most powerful families loyal to him went down too. Think about it, Ivan. In just one chunk, we eliminated a significant number of magical talents. And still, the likes of Wood and Bell have to be stopped, even though we now spare their brats—something we didn't do for the Potters, the Longbottoms or the McKinnons, mind you. Meanwhile, most wizarding families simply go with the flow—think of those very same Wilkes, the Averys, the Notts. Half-bloods support us in even larger numbers because it's convenient. But leave one Black alive, and this precious balance will be disturbed. And that's exactly what certain families like the Macmillans, the Browns or the Diggorys want. They simply dream of the old days coming back."

Ivan's eyebrows rose. "Fair enough. But tell me again—what about Yaxley puts the Dark Lord on his guard? No one denies he's far from stupid. Does this mean Andromeda Black would have been a much too dangerous weapon in his hands? Do you suspect him of disloyalty?"

"Not necessarily, no. He can very well be loyal to the Dark Lord and our regime and still have his own agenda. These two aspects are not mutually exclusive," Euan shrugged. "At any rate, I suggest you be careful. The Blacks bring disruptions wherever they come: their last heir might have been a disgrace, but the sword and the Grims are present on their coat of arms for a reason."

"She has already brought disruptions to us," Ivan sighed. "Literally five minutes after she arrived. Still..."

"How is Ghergana?" the blond wizard suddenly asked.

Ivan rolled his eyes. "The usual. I don't reckon she'll be speaking to Tony or me for a month."

"It's not easy on her." Euan shook his head. "She is made of a different wand wood, and witnessing such things can only hurt her. If I had been there, I would have advised Tony against volunteering. When the fate of Marlene McKinnon was being decided, he listened to me and walked away from it all. He should have walked away now. Let someone else have Andromeda Tonks if the Dark Lord refuses to submit her to the Dementor's Kiss."

"You know, I agree," Ivan said. "As much as it pleases me to see him avenge us... I wish he had consulted me before taking this step. The Blacks are trouble—too much trouble for what they're worth. But there is no going back. Mark my words: that wench will do her best to turn Ghergana against us."

"For now, we don't know if her brat is still alive. That, too, will influence the course of the next days," Euan reminded him earnestly. "Either way, I can speak to Ghergana. If there is anyone who knows the Blacks for what they are, it's me. Druella was one of them."

* * *

Moments after Ivan joined his son for breakfast, Ghergana left her bedroom. Her limbs were still languid from the Calming Potion she had been administered the night before, and she was fuming at her husband's nerve. Antonin's actions, however, felt a thousand times more painful. She did not need to ask Plamen's portrait for news to comprehend what had taken place during the night.

Resolutely, she knocked on the door to her son's room, too furious to care whether she would catch him at an awkward moment. There was no response, though. After another knock, she pushed the door open.

Antonin had already gone downstairs, but the young witch was present and still in bed. She was motionless on her back with only a silk purple sheet for a cover, and not a muscle on her face shifted to indicate that she had heard the other woman enter.

Ghergana closed the door and came forth, eyeing the coppery-haired witch anxiously.

"Mrs Tonks?" she whispered. "Andromeda?"

"Who are you and what do you want?"

The question had been uttered in an impassive voice, as lifeless and dull as the look in her eyes, which she still had not turned towards the mistress of the house. Were it not for the slightly puffy skin on her face, which betrayed the tears she had shed, the sight would have been more than a little eerie.

"My name is Ghergana Dolohov. I'm Antonin's mother," Ghergana breathed, coming closer but keeping herself at a respectful distance from the distressed young woman. What she was seeing had knocked the wind out of her. She could not believe her son had done this, that he was capable of harming another person in such an unspeakable way. "I want to help you."

"Help me," Andromeda echoed, blinking the bitter moisture in her eyes away. "Tell me what they are saying about a girl named Nymphadora Tonks. Is she alive?"

Ghergana's heart gave a painful throb. "I don't know, Andromeda. I'm sorry. I'll find it out—if there is anyone who knows, I will find it out today."

The younger witch said nothing in response.

"Please let me assist you," Ghergana implored after a short silence. "I will heal you, bring you something to drink…"

"Leave me alone, Ghergana Dolohov."

With this, Andromeda turned on her side. The silk blanket slipped off her skin, revealing her bare back marred with several bite marks.


	4. IV

**Note:** Co-written with the lovely almanera.

* * *

Antonin Dolohov's elation was long gone after breakfast. He had expected his mother to shower him with fury, but her reaction had exceeded all limits of reason. Far from preaching him, as was her custom, she now refused to even look at him. There was nothing he could do to placate her, though; as his father had pointed out, he was to fulfil his duty both towards his House and the Dark Lord.

There was work to be done. His bedroom was specious enough to accommodate a married couple, but there were items he ought to purchase, starting from an additional wardrobe and a vanity table and including a set of ladies' clothes and products for personal hygiene. Additionally, a party for his fellow Death Eaters was in order in a few days' time so that his marriage could be officially celebrated; it was customary for their group to have an informal reunion whenever a significant change occurred.

While he and his father sat in the living room discussing their course of action, the fire in the hearth suddenly swell in a green burst, and a single envelope shot out of the flames before flitting to the ground. With a frown, Antonin recognised the Dark Lord's handwriting and his succinct, commanding style. The note informed him he was to bring his wife to Malfoy Manor at once. Grumpy and disconcerted but obedient nonetheless, he went upstairs, calling for the house-elf to ask his mother for a dress, for Andromeda had no clothes of her own just yet. His dark, windowless room was silent, as always. The young witch had not left the bed; she was motionless, and the only parts of her he could see were her mane of coppery curls and her pale back bearing several bite marks. Suppressing a smile of pride, he approached her, brushing her shoulder with his lips.

"Andromeda."

The witch did not react, but there was no doubt she had heard him.

"The Dark Lord wishes to speak to you at once," he whispered. "I think he will tell you news of your daughter. You need to get dressed."

"Bring me a robe."

The house-elf joined them within a minute, laden with a simple long-sleeved lilac dress and a set of unopened undergarments, which Antonin unrolled on the bed.

"There you go. Are you able to stand?"

Without a word, she pulled herself to sitting position and rose, her muscles tensing and her breathing pained. She only put on the dress, too sore no doubt to use the undergarments. He could not help but marvel at how well lilac suited her, complementing her coppery eyes and curls, and made a mental note of getting her several dresses and nightgowns in that shade.

"Ready?"

"Take me to him."

Squeezing her hand, he turned on the spot, and the world dissolved in a whirlwind of Apparition. They reappeared in a spacious, candle-lit corridor, a door looming in front of them. Upon a house-elf's admission, Antonin entered, Andromeda's hand in his, and knelt.

"My Lord."

The tall figure of their master emerged from the shadows in a billow of his robes, his red eyes fixed on the Death Eater and the frail woman.

"Rise, Antonin," he ordered in his high-pitched and hissing voice. "You may go. I believe there are matters that require your attention."

"Yes, my Lord."

Antonin backed out of the room with his head bowed. Surprised though he was, there were indeed matters he ought to sort out. He Disapparated the moment the door closed on his Lord and his wife.

* * *

Voldemort took his time observing the witch.

"Approach."

She slowly did so. Her abused body was trembling, and had it not been for the training and the discipline she had been put through during her childhood, she would not have been able to do this. As it was, she forced her limbs to move one step at a time before bringing herself to meet those crimson eyes devoid of any human emotion.

A warm fur cloak suddenly descended onto her shoulders while they measured each other, neither betraying any questions nor providing answers. With the Dark Lord, it always was a game of the unknown.

"Come, Andromeda, there is something I want you to see," he spoke at last.

A cold white hand closed around her wrist, and she only had a second to brace herself for another Apparition, which left her gasping for air with her head spinning. He seemed to have expected this, for he allowed her a short instant to rest. The sight before them nearly stole away her breath once again. This was not what she had expected to see.

They were standing at the entrance gate of a castle—not one as large as Hogwarts but an impressive one all the same. It was ancient, curved into a hill, its roof rotten away at quite a few spots. Just above the ground, Andromeda could distinguish a row of low windows, which indicated the presence of a dungeon. Conversely, several thin towers pointed towards the sky, their windows so minuscule that they were bound to bring more gloom than sunlight to the chambers within.

Before she could even start speculating who inhabited this castle, a blast of wind slammed into her face, and the stench of blood and sweat it brought provided the answer at once. This smell had no equal in the wizarding world; nor did the yellow eyes of the beastly man who hurried towards them, bowing and muttering reverent pleasantries.

"My Lord, it is an honour to receive you in our humble castle. Please, allow me..."

On and on went Fenrir Greyback's awkward compliments, and soon, they were following him inside the heavy gates into a bleak and deserted courtyard. He had not addressed a word to Andromeda, but his sniff and his appreciative glance at her pale throat were more than eloquent.

The grass was frozen and stiff beneath their feet as they walked towards the entrance hall, which looked as dreary and unwelcoming as the castle itself. And little wonder it was, too. This was a werewolf residence, and Greyback was the caretaker.

Presently, he was murmuring disconnected pieces of information on the dungeons, where insubordinate inhabitants were usually locked up. Andromeda found herself more interested in the room he mentioned next: the _wand room_ —a place to store the werewolves' wands for the duration of their transformations.

On their way through a series of halls and chambers, they encountered several members of the community, who all bowed and cowered before the Dark Lord. With every staircase they took, the top of the hill the castle was moulded into was becoming more prominent, and at last, they reached a room filled with light, its door opened onto a frosty patio. A blood-spattered frosty patio.

Andromeda's breath hitched, and while the Dark Lord had not changed his posture or uttered a word, she could feel something had shifted in his countenance. They had arrived to the most important part of this place, and the significance of this journey was about to be revealed to her.

There was no need to look twice to see where the gore had come from. A human carcass, that of a child, mutilated and stripped of half its mass, had been carelessly tossed onto the grass to rot.

 _Dora_. Her very first instinct made her think of her only child, her baby. But this poor child was—had been—even younger than Dora.

"There has never been a creature more feared and despised than the werewolf," the Dark Lord uttered. "Understandably so, many wizards would say, for Lycanthropy is easily spread by blood and saliva. When a werewolf bites a human, the victim will become a werewolf as well; even a scratch from a werewolf will lead to lupine tendencies in the bitten human and will leave a scar that cannot be healed."

"And yet, such a condition also brings power," Andromeda mused. "People fear most what they despise."

"Indeed," the Dark Lord agreed softly. "You would know all about being feared, wouldn't you, Andromeda? You family has been using this talent for centuries."

"Until two bad fathers saw it fit to destroy us from within," Andromeda sighed, her eyes never leaving the poor child. Worst of all, his mother… His poor, poor mother could still be alive, waiting for her child to come home.

"There is no need to be harsh. Managing such substantial power is not an easy task; not where politics is involved and where one's image is of great concern."

"Which is why you abandoned it," Andromeda stated soberly. "You don't need anyone's approval; not with your extraordinary magical abilities and great ambitions. If there ever was a wizard who could afford abandoning the common approach of climbing the ladder of magical hierarchy, it was you. You were simply extraordinary enough to wipe it all out and establish your own order."

"You are gifted with words, my dear, but this is not why I showed you mercy."

" _This_ is mercy?"

"It is," Voldemort assured her. "I spared your life, didn't I? As for my decision—had you glimpsed the minds of some of my other Death Eaters, you would have agreed with me. As dedicated as Antonin is, his warm feelings towards you are not so personal as to tempt him to breach my orders and kill you… which is something I wouldn't be so sure about in the case of my other Death Eaters. Traitors are not well-loved, you see, and the Blacks… the Blacks are simply despised."

"An inevitable consequence of our legacy," Andromeda admitted, unfazed. "I would have thought, however, that the Malfoys and Bellatrix have served so well that you wouldn't wish to disgrace them so."

"The Malfoys and Bellatrix know better than to cross me."

"I'm sure they do," Andromeda echoed. "The Malfoys would have much to lose, should they dare to cross you. And Bellatrix would never do it under any circumstances, I'm sure of it. But I am a different matter. I can cross you and tell you everything my heart desires, no matter how harsh. I have nothing to lose, and no matter how closely I resemble my sister, I am not her. You can point your wand at my chest and utter the words right now, or you can torture me until my mind gives out and I become a prisoner in my own disabled body. You can even burn me alive to mock the medieval customs of Muggles. It does not matter. Nothing matters any more."

"Nothing?" the Dark Lord breathed. "Not even that little half-Muggle of yours?"

Andromeda glanced at him. _Could it be?_

"The Metamorphmagus lives. It would have been a pity to eliminate such a rare talent. What you have witnessed here serves a purpose: no one else has ever thought of taking charge of the werewolves, you see. Hypocritical as many wizards are, they are too disgusted by our sharp-clawed friends, never seeing the benefits of a potential alliance with them… for if directed correctly, such fear would open an enormous potential, don't you agree?"

Andromeda finally turned away from the child's remains, her attention now resting solely on the Dark Lord. Her relief was immense. Her coppery eyes were slowly filling with tears; she had not realized she had already mourned for her daughter.

"An enormous potential, yes," she whispered. "A potential you have spotted and put to a good use. But do it the wrong way, and the world shall remember you as vicious tyrant—a tyrant to rebel against again and again until, one day, a victory comes that the rebels shall count as theirs. And to achieve this victory, _this_ is what they will show."

Very briefly, the young woman's look returned to the child's remains while Voldemort watched her calmly.

"A vicious tyrant… I don't think I can even recall the last time someone actually _dared_ call me that."

"Not to your face, I'm sure. Your loveliness must have charmed them into silence."

At this, the ruby red eyes narrowed; the wizard's grip on his wand tightened.

"Has happiness made you lose your mind, Andromeda? I can order your half-Muggle executed any time I wish."

"And destroy a Metamorphmagus?" she objected, all traces of humour gone from her demeanour as swiftly as they had appeared.

"You gave birth to a Metamorphmagus once; you can do so again."

She stared back at him, impassive, before saying, "No rooms have been turned into classrooms in this castle. It's not a mistake on your part, naturally. There is a number of werewolf children, but you don't intend to educate them; you are planning on using them as your army—a guarantee that proves your power, should the rebels get so cocky as to defy your Death Eaters. Again, I admit the fact that you've put the werewolves to a good use—unlike Albus Dumbledore, who, in reality, was one of those hypocrites who would preach on the equality of all magical beings yet never really act to prove this so-called equality or take measures to ensure it was achievable. In the end, he may have understood his own erroneous ways or not; it doesn't matter. You, on the other hand, saw the differences between the magical races at once, just like you saw the distinctions between wizards and their backgrounds. Of course, you would act differently from the likes of Dumbledore, whose goal was to achieve cheap popularity. Yet the werewolves _are_ wizards and witches too. Respect that side of them, and you will have the beasts' loyalty; neglect that side, and they may just turn against you. It's not a classroom I have in mind, though, but the availability of certain potions. Transformations are painful, and our long-clawed friends need to feel a little appreciation."

The Dark Lord did not reply. The way Andromeda had just spoken had strongly reminded him of someone he used to know—someone he had killed in the end but whose memory was still stark in his mind.

"Come," he commanded.

"Pardon?"

"There is no point in enduring this stench any longer. You shall be more useful elsewhere."


End file.
